


Wanders Through the Dark Wood

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Implied Gimli/Legolas Greenleaf, M/M, Teenage Legolas Greenleaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this Hobbit Kink prompt: </p><p>http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8896277#t8896277</p><p>Instead of being captured and taken to the palace while traveling through Mirkwood, the the Company manages to avoid detection by any patrols. However, they do stumble across a wild party in the middle of the woods, hosted by none other than Legolas.</p><p>A Dresden Files fusion fic that places Legolas in the role of Maeve the Winter Lady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanders Through the Dark Wood

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is probably more serious than the prompt ever intended, but rest assured, Legolas is still a party person.
> 
> Also, this fic directly uses elements from Jim Butcher's "Summer Knight," the fourth installment in The Dresden Files. The scene in that I use is one of favorites: when Harry and Billy go to Undertown and encounter Maeve the Winter Lady of the Sidhe Court. If you like worldbuilding and urban fantasy, I highly recommend you check out this book.

Of all his time on the quest, Bilbo couldn't recall the conditions being quite so miserable. Dangerous, yes (though they were not entirely safe here), but it had never been as absolutely dismal as it was right now.

Mirkwood was quite a foreboding place. Every waking moment, Bilbo was filled with a sense of dread inspired by the unnerving quiet that reigned over the forest. With the air chilly and damp, teeming with strange fog that that played tricks on the eyes and made one see things that weren't, the once-greenwood was positively ghostly. Indeed, at times the forest did appear to be haunted. Whenever Bilbo looked ahead, he could see white mist swirling in spirals, forming draped figures that slowly moved across the grass but then vanished into the gray sky.

A solitary screech owl's mournful cry, loud and persistent, was the only birdcall to ever break the roaring stillness of the dim forest. The woods were unforgivingly dense and dark, and Bilbo worried that if they were ever to lose their way and get turned around, they might be stuck wandering in circles for days.

The Company had been traveling through Mirkwood for three days already. Their provisions had dwindled down to a single loaf of bread and a few mealy apples; no roots, berries, or any sort of edible vegetation from the wood made itself available to them. Each one of them searched, scrutinizing every plant they passed, but it seemed as though the forest was deliberately punishing them for their trespass.

And so, they pushed onward, existing in a constant state of tension, always wary of being caught, hunger gnawing away at their stomachs. Conditions were damp and muddy from the rain that had persisted for several days, but  even if there were clear skies, Bilbo doubted the warmth of the sun wood penetrate the thick trees and close underbrush.

They had little choice to keep off the main path for fear of being spotted, and thus tried to make do slogging through the brushwood. Much time was spent slipping and sliding in thick mud and on slick moss, as well as fruitlessly trying to escape the grasp of brambles and resignedly pulling hair and beards out of shrubbery. Already many of them had taken tumbles, resulting in bruised shins and aching knees; Kili's fall had been particularly unfortunate, onto a bed of rocks, leaving him with several broken ribs. Though he insisted he was fine, he winced with each step he took. Bilbo was gratified that Fili, refusing to leave his younger brother's side, was always there to assist.

The grip of his reliable Hobbit feet had helped him maintain his footing during the trek through the forest, more so than most of the Dwarves. Bilbo was right at the front, walking slightly behind Thorin and Balin, who were leading the group, and he could hear the discussion taking place between them.

"We've seen no hide nor hair of the Mirkwood Elves for three days, and that worries me," Balin was saying lowly to Thorin. "They're territorial folk. Thranduil jealously guards what he claims to own. He wouldn't allow his land to go unsecured for days at a time."

"Then we must stay on our guard," Thorin replied, his tone quiet but resolute. "I will not be captured by that Elven coward. He will not prevent me from returning to my home."

Balin might have replied, but then Dori said suddenly, "Does anyone else hear that?"

Had not the situation been so tense, Bilbo would have laughed at the comicality of the entire group of Dwarves freezing in place as they strained to hear distant sounds.

A few heartbeats passed in silence, and then they perceived the noise arising from precariously close by— galloping hooves, the clink of metal, voices calling to one another in Elvish— a Mirkwood patrol.

Bilbo's mind searched wildly for another explanation, for the Elves couldn't have possibly been so quiet that all of the Company neglected to hear their approach, but with a sinking heart, he registered the grim reality of their situation. The density of the forest must have muted the sound of the gaining patrol until escape was hopeless.

Thorin and Balin exchanged a split-second glance, and Bilbo read their expressions— the Company was moments away from being captured, caught out in the open with no trees or brush to shelter them from view.

Thorin turned to his companions, his face determined. "To the trees! Run!"

So they fled, into another section of the woods, that, if possible, appeared more sinister and gloomy than the rest of the forest. Their footsteps pounded against the dirt floor, muffled slightly from the carpet of pine needles. Bilbo was following directly behind Thorin before he recalled Kili's injury and fell back to see if he required aid. Perhaps it might have been the chance to give his surroundings a second look, but this time around, Bilbo was able to discern a pattern marked into several of the trees. At a quick glance, the imprints appeared to be a sort flower, maybe a rose, carved into the tree trunks at six feet off the ground.

However, Bilbo could not spare the time for further study of the markings, as he rushed to assist the brothers. Fili was helping Kili, and the former acknowledged Bilbo's presence with a grateful smile.

They were not at all far behind the others, which was a relief, because Bilbo worried he might lose sight of them in this dark, murky wood. The three of them caught up to the rest of the Company, only for all of them to arrive a stone wall that was set directly in front of them, reaching far into the air, stretching long on either side, effectively blocking their way.

It was a strange phenomenon: the wall appeared to simply loom out of the darkness as though it had not been there before. However, the stone was dark in coloration, and Bilbo supposed, considering that particular factor in combination with the dim light, tricks on the eyes were a reasonable explanation.

Straight ahead in the enormous wall was a tall, wide door. It appeared to be made from a green wood that was not painted, but rather, naturally verdant, and was plain beyond a lurid sigil in the shape of a blue rose, positioned exactly in the center, and a golden gilt handle.

"We have to go through the door," Fili said urgently.

"Are you daft? It might be a trap," hissed Nori.

"We're already trapped!" Kili pointed out exasperatedly.

"Whatever the decision might be, it has to be soon," said Dwalin, his eyes fixed on Thorin. "Those Mirkwood bastards are fast gaining on us."

"It might as well be through the door," Bilbo spoke quickly, pushing his way to the front in order to ascertain he had their attention. He felt a thorn of self-consciousness, but he pushed it aside; the situation was dire, and he didn't have the time to doubt himself and his judgement. "If we try to flee deeper into the forest, our capture is inevitable."

Thorin considered his statement, and for a moment, Bilbo thought he had stepped on Thorin's toes with his suggestion, but then Thorin nodded firmly. "We must go through the door. Hurry, there is no time to waste."

Balin unhesitatingly threw open the door and disappeared inside. The rest of the Company followed, and Bilbo fell into the back of the line. From his position, he saw that Thorin remained outside. He realized Thorin was waiting outside to affirm every one of the Company had passed through the door and was away from the Mirkwood patrol before entering the doorway himself. Gathering his wits, Bilbo plunged into the beckoning darkness.

The subdued sun and dark woods allowed little illumination of the path to come, but there was light inside. Torches flickered in elaborate sconces, set high on walls, revealing that the Company was in some sort of grotto. Before them, a tunnel yawned, its floor a wide staircase stretching deeper into darkness.

"What now?" Fili inquired, wrapping an arm around Kili's shoulders to support his brother.

"We go forth," Thorin said determinedly, pushing his way to the front of the group. He grabbed a torch and strode resolutely down into the inky blackness that lay beyond. The Company followed, several of them taking torches as well.

Though Bilbo knew it could not have been more than a quarter hour that they wandered through darkness, to him the time stretched into hours. He did not like the coruscating shadows cast by the light of the torches, or the narrow path with its close walls and low ceiling that seemed to press down onto him.

They turned a corner, and Bilbo could see a bright oasis of light up ahead, where a tall white figure stood motionless.

Thorin noticed it, too, and before Bilbo could open his mouth in warning, he had already hissed, "On your guard," to the band of Dwarves following behind him. At once, weapons were drawn in preparation for a fight.

The Company approached the figure guardedly, ready to stave off any sudden attack. None occurred, and as they slowly continued the tunnel gave way to a sort of cavern, embellished with carvings and a lofty, vaulted high ceiling, where the figure awaited them.

It was an Elven woman. Probably barely more than a girl, but Bilbo found it difficult to judge ages when it came to their kind.

Her face was soft and lovely, with eyes the vivid green of summer grass. A garland of ivy reposed on gentle waves of long red-gold hair that flowed freely down to past her waist. She was clad in a flowing white chiton belted by a simple braid woven with threads of muted gold. A bracelet of white jasmine adorned one wrist, while a blue rose and its thorns wound around the other arm. An anklet of lavatera occupied her right foot, magnolia, her left. Her feet were bare, long and graceful like the rest of her, and the nails on both her feet and hands had been lacquered with a shimmering opalescense.

The source of the light was the bright lantern she carried, holding it out in front of her with an extended arm. She watched their approach without the slightest hint of expression, but an aura of calm radiated throughout her being.

Thorin's eyes landed on the blue rose adorning the Elf's arm; Dwalin's followed, and a quick glances was exchanged between them.

"Those carvings . . ." Balin murmured, and with a jolt, Bilbo realized the others had seen the marks on the trees and had understood their significance.

A quick, muttering conference between Balin, Dwalin, and Thorin commenced; many suspicious glances and heated glares were thrown in the direction of the Elven woman. She remained still, perfectly at ease, her serene demeanor readily intact.

Thorin stepped forward, regarding the Elf warily. Bilbo could see the tension in his shoulders, and heard the undercurrents of antipathy and ire in his voice.

"Who are you, and what do you want with us?" Thorin's gruff voice echoed off the high-ceilinged cavern.

"Greetings, travelers," she said. Her voice was clear and mellifluous. "I am Tauriel. I have been sent as an envoy, to guide you safely to my Lord's domain."

"And what awaits us at your Lord's domain?" Thorin demanded, skepticism evident in his voice. Bilbo winced at the barely disguised accusation in his voice. Diplomacy was not Thorin's strong point— had they actually encountered the Elven King, Bilbo had no doubt that Thorin, with his unique combination of stubbornness, insolence, and inability to compromise, would manage to earn separate prison cells for each of the Company.

"We intend no harm to any of you, and we offer you our aid. My Lord's invitation stands in good faith— we hope you would reciprocate," Tauriel replied.

"I ask again," Thorin asserted. "Who are you?"

The Elven woman tilted her chin ever so slightly. "I am Tauriel. I have been sent here to guide you with safe conduct through this realm and to the court and throne of my Lord. Only good will and concord await you."

"Thrice I ask and done," Thorin declared. "Who are you?"

"My Lord sent me to bring you thither, safe and whole and well," Tauriel stated in her melodious tones. "My Lord will not allow or administer any sort of injury or offense to any of your party."

The silence stood apparent when she finished her piece, and Bilbo saw Thorin trade glances with Dwalin and Balin, no doubt considering their desperate situation with the Company ravaged by hunger. He then nodded at Tauriel and said abruptly, "Lead on, then."

She turned and began down another passage that Bilbo could swear had not been there until mere seconds ago. She seemed to glide across the stone floor, grace punctuating every one of her steps. Though Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin, weapons in hand, practically stayed on her heels, the other Dwarves appeared reluctant to follow follow her, either chary or simply stunned at their leader's unexpected acquiesce to the Elf.

Bilbo took advantage of their momentary hesitation, and rushed to keep pace with Balin. His sudden eagerness might have inspired the other Dwarves, as they summarily followed him.

"What was that all about?" Bilbo murmured to Balin once he caught up, his eyes on Thorin's back. "Why would he ask the same question three times?"

"He was testing her," Balin replied in a low tone. “To see if he could confuse her, shake her confidence, overwhelm her with questions. She wasn’t easy to catch in a lie, though.”

"Don't let down your guard, Master Baggins," Bombur added from behind him. Bilbo noticed that the usually easygoing Bombur was grasping tightly to his knives.

"But surely it's a good sign that she carries no weapons?" Bilbo questioned anxiously.

Bofur shrugged. "Or these elves are trying to catch us off guard."

The Company followed their Elven guide for perhaps another half of an hour or so, through a labyrinth of meandering, sinuous tunnels. Several times they passed through a chamber containing a tangle of other paths, twisting and snaking and veering off in every direction, but at no point did they stray from their route. Many sections of the tunnel showed evidence of recent construction— swirling layers of stone that seemed to have been smoothed into place in one swift, sweeping motion— and a few tunnels seemed entirely new.

They turned a corner and arrived at a long hallway leading to massive, ornately carved double doors, wreathed at the edges with trailing  arbutus . Made of some burnished, tawny wood Bilbo could not identify, the doors were ten or twelve feet of intricate engravings, similar to the ones on the trees they had seen. At first Bilbo thought the carvings were of a garden theme— leaves, vines, flowers, fruits, and the like. But as he grew closer to the doors, he saw that they were not so innocuous.

Forms of people— Men— lay among the vines scrolling across the wood. Some were intertwined together in lovers' embraces, while a few engaged in futile struggle to alleviate the whortleberry ramblers wrapping around their throats, and others were reduced to skeletons entangled in the tendrils of larkspur blooms or corpses gazing lifelessly from beds of monkshood.

Tauriel delicately stepped forward, grasped one of the great door knockers and proceeded to slam the ring of iron against the polished wood several times. The blows rang out, hollow and booming, echoing throughout the spiderweb of tunnels. Silence fell on the passage for a moment that lasted an eternity for Bilbo, his stomach twisting in trepidation.

Bilbo suppressed a shiver as the doors suddenly opened before them, the enormous slabs of wood flying inward on their hinges and the wood creaking at the rapid movement. A rapid deluge of light and sound and color spilled out.

"Do not fear us," Tauriel said gently. "We do not seek to harm you. Venture forth, if you will, and enjoy our hospitality."

At Tauriel's imploring, the Company looked to Thorin. He nodded decisively, and the group cautiously moved as one forward through the entrance, toward whatever lay beyond the door.

"It bothers me," Bofur muttered into Bilbo's ear.

"What does?" Bilbo looked at him nervously.

Bofur's eyes were serious, void of his usual humor. "That Elf lass never said she'd guide us out again."

Bilbo felt his anxiety increase at Bofur's somber statement, but his worries were replaced by wonder as he took in the scene around him.

They found themselves in a vast courtyard. Sheer stone walls jutted from the ground at the far left and right, lined with lush vines, dotted with vivid flowers, and fringed with towering pine trees. The trees were strung with flowing silken ribbons and large, beaming lanterns of polished copper, fitted with colored glass. The tree branches extended, crisscrossing far above the ground to form an airy sort canopy that was laced together with leafy vines.

Also along the stone walls were several winding stairways, leading up to about a dozen balconies that thrust out from the walls at various levels, connected by a lattice of catwalks, stretching upward into a maze. Figures, distant silhouettes, reclined on setees and chaise lounges, overlooking the scene as detached observers only, as if preemptively disclaiming involvement with any less than desirable happenings that might occur below.

A strange, quick music resounded through the air and off the stone walls, charged with an unfamiliar tempo kept by various horns, rich and resonant. A large brass section blared, accompanied by subtler woodwinds. The area's illumination was dim, bathed in a light that was white and faintly blue, and Bilbo saw why when he glanced upward. Patches of starry night sky and a scintillating moon shone through the spaces between the trees.

"Wait here," Tauriel said softly, before crossing the expanse of dazzlingly white marble sewn with threads of gold that stretched before them. She then unhesitatingly mounted a resplendent staircase with gleaming gold hand railings, her movements poised and agile. The Dwarves shifted uneasily, unsettled about being abandoned by their guide in an unfamiliar place.

"She promised our host would not harm us," Bilbo said, hoping to reassure the Dwarves and himself.

"I'd like to have a promise from him as well," Dwalin replied, alert eyes scanning the platform to which the staircase led.

Figures whirled and moved over what what apparently a dance floor, a tall bonfire blazing in its center. It was an ocean of white marble that glowed blue in the moonlight, sometimes reflecting the colors of the muted lanterns dangling from thick branches above. The tinted glass of every lantern was a different shade, ranging from deep lavender to pale blue to light green to plain white, giving the effect of plashes of glacial ice. Frolicking on the dance floor, in the pools of colored light, appeared to be a collection of young elves.

For Bilbo to call them beautiful would be the understatement of his life. The singular word didn't start to come close to describing the awe the very sight of them inspired, or the absolute flawlessness of their features. Their astonishing appeal was raw, sensual, though even as they danced, they seemed completely beyond mortal reach.

All of their bodies were long and willowy, leanly muscled, clad in garments of rich fabric in a fashion that was at once understated and urbane, sophisticated in its simplicity. Most wore leggings and tunics, basic shirts that might been deliberately styled with a tighter fit than could be called casual, but several women had draped themselves light gowns, plain but fitted shifts, that fell about their ankles. A few wore sweeping skirts that billowed as they whirled, flaring up to advertise the soft, porcelain skin of their perfectly formed legs.

Here and there was a wink of metal or gleam of gems set at ears or necks. Their glossy hair caught the luster of the tinted lanterns and threw it back in waves of subtle color, bringing black hair to shimmer blue and blonde hair to shine silver.

The way they moved was something hypnotic in itself, and Bilbo gaped at them, mesmerized by their grace and beauty. Bofur gave him a nudge with his elbow, and, blushing, Bilbo had to force his eyes away from a pair of lovely legs being revealed as an Elf woman spun.

To distract himself, Bilbo glanced about the rest of the courtyard.

On one side of the room stood a platform that held the musicians, all of whom were dressed quite formally. They were Men of both genders. None of them looked healthy or rested; their garments were dotted with sweat, their hair hung limp and unwashed, yet they did not look unhappy. In fact, they seemed quite content. Every one of them was bent to the music, intensity and concentration etched on their faces. They were talented, playing with the unity of tone and timing only generated by those who had honed their art to perfection.

Opposite the bandstand, another series of stairs descended directly into what Bilbo presumed to be a pool of water. It looked black and unnaturally still. Only once as he watched did the waters stir, moved by something skulking beneath, bringing color to roll and ripple over the surface. A deep sense of unease roused within Bilbo at the sight.

Beyond the dance floor, on the side of the room opposite from where the Company stood, was a flight of low, shallow stairs created by raised tiers of marble that grew briefer as they went higher. Each end of the long, broad tier was furnished with a wrought metal table, one on the left and one on the right. The tables were capable of seating three or four at the most, and each was illuminated by its own hanging colored lantern; the tables all stood at different relative heights to one another, staggered up and down.

The tiers reached an apex at a dais set in the very center, strategically positioned to retain a wide, clear path on the steps. Upon the dais rested a great silver chair, its flaring back carved into a sigil of an enormous blue rose. The ornate throne stood empty, though a few graceful figures lounged on the steps, limbs sprawling elegantly. Framing the throne were two strong young trees curving toward each other to meet in an arch, a sort of sylvan communion. A few paces behind the throne, a curtain of red velvet was draped from tree branches that stretched maybe fifteen feet off the ground, effectively concealing whatever might lie beyond.  

The drummer on the bandstand progressed into a brief standalone piece after the others had paused, and then the instruments cut off altogether, except for one. Several musicians sagged into their seats, a couple of them slipping off their chairs to collapse onto the floor. The lead trumpeter, however, remained standing, belting out a solo while the Elves danced. He was a Man in his later middle years, somewhat thicker about the waist. His face flushed scarlet, then deepened to plum as his trumpet rang out, echoing off the stone walls.

Then, one by one, the Elves ceased in their dancing. Dozens of beautiful faces whirled in rapid succession to watch the soloist, their eyes glinting in the low light.

The man continued to play, but it was obvious to Bilbo that something was terribly wrong. The flush of the Man's face grew all the more apparent, and veins began to bulge at his forehead and throat. His eyes stretched wide and spasms suddenly wracked his body. Seconds later, his music began to falter. The man tore his face away from the trumpet, gasping for breath that his lungs seemed unable to contain.

A moment more and he jerked, then stiffened, and his eyes rolled back into his head. The trumpet slid from his fingers, clattering to the marble floor, and, as Bilbo watched in sickened shock, he followed shortly, limply falling off the edge of the bandstand. He hit the floor with finality and lay there, his eyes open but unfocused.

A murmur went through the assorted gatherers, and Bilbo, in his dismay, looked up to see them parting, stepping aside with deep bows and curtseys for someone emerging from their midst. A slim individual, well-muscled body streamlined and moderately tall, sauntered slowly toward the fallen musician. He was Elvish, certainly, and was the most beguiling of all those present. He was, in fact, the most desirable being Bilbo had ever laid eyes on. Beauty and elegance was evident in his entire demeanor, from his flawless, radiant face with snowy skin and bright eyes, to his gliding and confident strides.

There could be no doubt from anyone that he was captivating, effortlessly so. Precisely symmetrical features were set upon an utterly immaculate complexion, complemented by gently angled cheekbones. Perfectly arched eyebrows and thick eyelashes framed a remarkably vibrant gaze. His sleek hair was blond, a singular shade of pale gold, glistening despite the subdued light. The silken strands reached beyond his shoulders, and above each pointed ear, a tress of hair had been pulled back from his face and loosely braided, forming a thin, relaxed circlet where both met at the back of his head.

Skintight leggings of dark leather enveloped his supple legs. The fabric was open at the outside seams from ankle to hip and only held together by fine gold cord that zigzagged over creamy flesh. His boots, which rose to his knees, matched the leggings in design and color, but the strangely metallic material shimmered to subtly reflect other colors as the light shifted with his movements.

A similarly form-fitting shirt of emerald green emphasized his slender, nubile form. The triangular neckline plunged nearly to his navel, laced fast by more glimmering gold thread in an open weave that drew attention to the lithe muscles and smooth white skin of its wearer. The sleeves of his shirt stopped before his elbows, likely unceremoniously hacked away, though wide, engraved gold bracelets worn at his biceps prevented visual confirmation. Another two gold bracelets adorned each wrist, similar to the others, while a narrow matching choker circled his throat. Perhaps it was his coltish legs, lean and long, or his provocative attire, but Bilbo had the strong impression that he was looking at a youth.

The Elf moved to the downed musician with a careless grace, eventually halting before the fallen man, raking his gaze over the prone form. The man on the floor didn't move or breathe.

As he contemplated the corpse, the Elf's eyes did not darken in sadness; instead, his lips were turned upward in a muted smile, an expression utterly unfitting for a situation that had taken an abruptly tragic turn. "Have you departed from us so soon, good minstrel? It seems our time together was ever so brief," he said serenely. His voice was lilting and pleasant to the ears, and his words were spoken clearly.

"But such is the way of mortals, I suppose," he went on. "Ever so frail, ever so flawed. Born from dust at dawn, half through life at midday, and fading into dust again at twilight, before you even have the chance to see the stars." An odd stillness pervaded the Elf’s demeanor and stance as he spoke, and his mannerisms were too poised, as though rehearsed. The Elves already appeared overly remote to outsiders, but this youth in particular was eerily dispassionate.

The Company exchanged quizzical glances at the youth's antics; the lone exception was Thorin, who simply glowered at the Elf.

"There, you see? Never let it be said that Legolas of the Greenwood breaks his promises.” A smile twisted his lips, and Bilbo did all that he could not to lurch back: the expression was frighteningly misplaced on the Elf’s features.  “You said it was your life's dream to master the art of your instrument and entertain royalty with your virtuosity, poor creature. I gave my word that it would happen. And since you now have achieved the dream that drove your life, your purpose has expired, though your ultimate fate was not foreseen by you or I. However, I do wonder . . ." The Elf’s voice trailed off as the smile faded from his face, and his voice speculative, he repeated, more softly, "I wonder . . . "

He stood for several moments, seemingly lost in his own musings, before he remembered that he had an attentive audience, and his conversation with the corpse drew to an end.

The unnatural smile curled over his mouth once more, as his gaze refocused on the crowd gathered around him. "My lords and ladies, let us give our poor minstrels time to recover their strength. Besides—" he swept an arm carelessly toward the Company "—we have guests."

The assembled crowd dissolved into carefree, melodious chatter after his words and drifted toward the tables and stairs, settling themselves into pairs or small groups. The youth watched them go for a moment, the odd little smile playing on his lips, before turning to the Company.

Bilbo could not suppress a gasp of alarm as the movement brought the moon's rays to shift across the Elf's face, casting a disquieting luminescence over his features. For just an instant, with his remote expression, alien visage, and winter pale complexion, the Elf seemed closer in resemblance to a cold, white marble statue brought to life by enchantment than a natural being with blood coursing through his veins. In the span of a second, the Elf's face had been revealed to hold an otherworldly nature, an entirely uncanny perfection.

Bilbo's unease deepened.

The Elven youth abandoned the corpse in favor of the Company, walking down the wide, grandiose stairs, his stride smooth and natural despite the dozens of eyes watching him. As he moved, it became obvious that his shirt stopped before his waist, leaving a good portion of smooth flesh exposed, and his leggings were so low on his hips that the lines of his pelvis were evident. He descended to the floor with a predator's easy motion, movements fluid and unhurried. His eyes remained fixed on their group with an intensity that did not match the rest of his unaffected mannerisms, and Bilbo shuddered as a piercing gaze, the color and warmth of blue topaz, flicked over him appraisingly.

The Elf's smile widened just a fraction.

He reached the floor and stood before them, regal bearing evident in his posture. Now that the Elven youth had sauntered forward, Bilbo could see the cold flint in his stare, and Bilbo's unease escalated.

The Elf's gaze met Thorin's directly, and then, to his surprise, the elf sank into a kneeling position, genuflecting to Thorin.

Bilbo was taken aback by this display of modesty, and glanced around at the Dwarves nearby for an explanation. Kili and Fili looked just as puzzled as he, Dwalin suspicious, and Bofur unimpressed. Balin's expression, however, was thoughtful, and just before the Elf raised his bowed head, Bilbo saw a meaningful glance pass between him and Thorin.

"Good evening my good travelers, or good morning in accordance with your place and time. Allow me the courtesy of introduction, if you will." His voice, though low, was smooth and silvery, pleasing to the ears, yet more than a touch distant. "I am Legolas Greenleaf, of the Greenwood that rapidly descends into Mirkwood. The forest holds many dangers, some hidden and others more apparent. Might I be so bold as to inquire your purpose for embarking on such a path not only perilous, but forbidden?"

"Chatty for an Elf, isn't he?" Bofur said out of the side of his mouth, and several of the Dwarves contributed mutters of agreement.

"You may ask, but you shall not receive any answer," growled Thorin.

Bilbo would have expected this Elf— Legolas of the Greenwood— to be offended by such a fiercely defensive response, but he seemed unperturbed.

"Please do not misunderstand me. I aim to offer you hospitality, not hostility. I am merely curious about the circumstances that would bring you to travel unknown roads fraught with risk." Legolas’s expression was not anything but serene.

"We're not like Elves," Thorin spat. "We do not flee at the first hint of danger."

Legolas did not acknowledge Thorin's insults. "Your people are weary, wounded, and weak with hunger. Let me offer you and your travelers safety, rest, repast, and aid for your injuries."

Thorin's mouth twisted into a humorless smile. "Elf, we have no need for your condescending pity, belated as it is—"

Fili cut in before his uncle could finish. "King Thorin graciously accepts your offer, and extends his thanks to you and your court."

Bilbo gaped at him, unable to believe that Fili had undermined his uncle before a stranger— before an Elf, no less! Most of the other Dwarves were shocked into silence, but Thorin stared at Fili, then spoke, his voice dangerously soft.

"What did you say, boy?"

"Fili," Kili began, placing a hand on his older brother's shoulder, but Fili shook his head, though the way his eyes lingered on Kili's face brought Bilbo to suspect that Fili had interfered due to his concern for his brother.

Fili stood strong in the face of his uncle's anger and the Company's disapproval, though his voice held an undercurrent of urgency. "Uncle, you are a great king and an indomitable leader for our people. But you hold too tightly to your past grievances. I do not deny you your right to be angry at the Elves for turning their backs on the plight of the Erebor Dwarves. But the past does not recur here. Don't let your pride and anger doom us when another option easily provides survival."

Silence rang out loudly at the conclusion of Fili's words. Bilbo glanced at the Elf and saw that he wasn't even paying attention. Instead, their host stood several paces away, half-turned from them, his eyes fixed on the pool of black water.

Following his gaze to the pool, as Bilbo watched, the water swelled, gently at first, then surged and parted. To Bilbo's astonishment, a duo of shapes broke the surface of the water, as though summoned by Legolas's gaze.

Several moments passed before Bilbo processed that the shapes were actually two beings. Speechless, he could only gaze in wonder as two dark-haired Elves ascended what were apparently submerged stairs. Upon their arrival at the top of the staircase, they immediately proceeded toward Legolas, who readily conferred with them, standing at ease, with his hands planted loosely on his hips.

Bilbo looked back at the Dwarves to relay the fantastic activities he had just witnessed, but words failed him, both due to his astoundment and the sight of Thorin, who was studying his two nephews critically.

Balin sighed. "Thorin, though I disagree with the boy's methods, he does have a point. We can't afford to pass up this opportunity for aid."

Dwalin was quick to voice suspicion. "What if this Elf is deceiving us and aims to harm us rather than help us? For that matter, why is he helping us at all?"

Bilbo cleared his throat, blinking to clear his mind of the display of sorcery that had taken place right before his eyes, and the Dwarves turned to look at him. A thorn of self-consciousness stabbed Bilbo, but he pushed it aside. Now more than ever, the rest of the Company needed his good Hobbit sense, and he couldn't be distracted, not even by magic.

"If I may," Bilbo started hesitantly, "had this Legolas of the Greenwood wished us harm, he could have simply allowed us to be caught by the Mirkwood patrol. But instead, he invited us into his meeting place. He seems to bear us no ill will.”

Thorin's lips contorted into a grimace, and Bilbo braced himself for a scathing riposte.

"We still cannot trust him," Thorin snarled. "I will make no promises to him, nor accept none from him." He turned to face the collective Company. "Very well. As the Elf is bound by his honor—" Thorin's face contorted as though the word he spoke was poison on his tongue "—we will agree to his offer of assistance, as my wayward nephew prematurely decided." Thorin scowled at Fili, but the lines on his face softened when he saw that Fili still stood beside Kili, ready and willing to help his brother. "But stay on your guard, and be quick with your weapons— I don't trust this Elf any more than any other of his kind."

Legolas ambled over to them, a vague air of complacency about him. "Thorin Oakenshield. Have you reached a conclusion regarding my presentation of hospitality?"

Thorin drew himself up to his full height to converse with the peculiar Elf. "We accept your offer, Legolas Greenleaf. However, if we are threatened in any manner, we will not hesitate to raise arms against you."

Legolas' eyes glittered with a distinctly alien light. "You will have no reason to do so," he replied dispassionately. "I brought you here so you could escape the injury and maltreatment you would receive at the hands of the Mirkwood Guard— they are not merciful to trespassers of any outside race. I have no reason or intent to harm you."

"But even less reason to help us," Thorin objected. "You blather on about your hospitality and good will, but why bother to extend welcome to us at all? What do you have to gain from this?"

Bilbo was curious about that himself. Considering the animosity between Elves and Dwarves— particularly the Erebor Dwarves and the Mirkwood Elves— Legolas' altruism was in direct contradiction to his people. Why would he go through so much trouble for a group of Dwarves, a kind he was likely raised to regard with disdain, or at the least, indifference?

Their odd host, however, did not seem to fully hear Thorin, nor did he appear concerned with answering his query.

"In due time," Legolas said, tone placating but a touch vague. His eyes slid past Thorin, before motioning to several courtiers. "My squires will see to the injuries of your party."

He nodded once. The music resumed, a soft, soothing tune carried by strings and woodwinds, and Legolas ascended the staircase. He moved with a precise grace, each stride making his hips roll and shoulders sway in mesmerizing ripples, somehow more in unison to the music and more graceful than any of the dancers had been.

Legolas continued to the rising tiers of dinner seats, stepping lithely up them until he reached the great silver throne at the top. He lowered himself into it and swung his legs over an arm in one single smooth motion, draping himself across the chair.

It was possible that as he did, he wore a faint smile with a hint of smugness that was more akin to a smirk, but in the dim light, Bilbo could not be entirely sure.

There was a gentle touch to his arm, and Bilbo jumped and whirled around.

One of the Elves who had arose from the water earlier now stood before him. This Elf was tall, youthful, and lissome, with a fine curtain of lustrous black hair that shone indigo in the moonlight. His complexion was ivory, with extraordinary gray eyes that held strength and intelligence. He did not look unlike Lord Elrond, Bilbo realized.

The Elf knelt to be on level with him, finesse and nimbleness accompanying his movements, and Bilbo could see that a blue rose wound about his right wrist. This Elf’s fitted garb was similar to Legolas's style of dress, but more modest. His cavalier shirt was a dark blue velvet, and the collar was laced with gold cord. The sleeves of his shirt were loose until just beyond the elbows, where the fabric tightened to form barrel cuffs before it ended. An etched belt of linked brass plates encircled his slim waist.  

Gold cord also trailed down the sides of his form-fitting black leggings, but unlike Legolas, actually served to fasten the leather closed rather than simply hold it in place. Matching boots came up to fold over as his knees, a style that brought images of bucaneers to Bilbo's mind. Nevertheless, there was a manner of composure and orderliness to his dress. A quick glance at his companion (presumably, his twin brother?) revealed that he was nearly identical in demeanor, attire, and appearance.

Keeping his gaze locked onto Bilbo’s, he reached out and lightly lifted Bilbo's arm, his motions slow and gentle, as though approaching a feral animal. He drew up the sleeve of his coat, exposing a series of scratches gained from an unsuccessful dispute with a thorn bush earlier that day. Bilbo had grown so accustomed to the discomfort he had completely forgotten about his abrasions.

He delicately placed an ivory hand over the scratches, and soft white light emitted from his fingertips. A moment passed, then the glow of light faded.

Bilbo extracted his arm and stared in amazement. The scratches had vanished from his arm, and he could feel a new energy seeping into his being. He felt suddenly refreshed, like he had awakened from a good night's sleep. He looked up at the Elf, but he gave Bilbo an enigmatic smile, and, with a whisper of velvet, departed to visit another wounded member of the Company.

As he and his brother (?) moved amongst Bilbo’s fellow travelers, a calm settled over the group, susurrations of tranquility sweeping the vast room. There was no reason to be tense, no reason to fret . . .

Bilbo would have been more curious, more astounded, more wary, but all he could concentrate on at the moment was the vitality sweeping through his body. He was rejuvenated, his spirits restored. A weight was lifted from his shoulders; gone was his worry, fear of the imminent danger, self-consciousness, and homesickness. In its place was a newfound vivacity centered on a deep sense of composure and certainty.

His memories of that night after the raven-haired steward healed his wounds and before they left were dim; there were areas in his recollection where it was just a blur of carefree laughter and delightfully meaningless chatter with the rest of the Company.

He could recall sitting at a long wooden table laden with plates, a feast of scrumptious dishes: smoked salmon, spiced venison, salted pork, roast beef, rich sauces, crusty breads, fluffy rolls, platters of seasoned vegetables, succulent fruits, bowls of melon sprinkled with mint, delectable puddings, and flowing wine and ale.

Shapes danced before his eyes, the room occasionally shifting around him. But Bilbo was too busy celebrating with the rest of the Company to be very concerned. He was feeling quite placid and untroubled, as they were among friends who would invite them to share their food and drink with them.

Perhaps Thorin had misjudged these Elves. After all, they were quite generous and obviously didn't withhold any luxuries from their guests . . .

Everything around him was swimming, as though the magnificent chamber had been flooded with water. Brilliant pastel-colored streaks, similar to Gandalf's fireworks, lurked at the corners of his vision. Sound seemed to drift in and out of Bilbo's ears, echoing dimly of the walls and then distorting, half-swallowed by the looming night.

Then came a warped roar, the enraged bellow splitting the air, shattering the amicable atmosphere.

Bilbo's head jerked up at the sudden interruption and he tried to turn and locate the source of the sound. But his whirl was slow and clumsy, as though he was moving through water. He searched, scanning the assorted Elves, along with the Company, but his gaze jumped from one to the next without fully focusing on one in particular. It was just by chance, really, that his eyes wandered to the staircase before Legolas's throne.

Dwalin was in the process of dragging Fili and Kili down the stairs by the scruffs of their necks. Legolas stood above, bearing witness to their descent with the vaguest vestiges of displeasure on his face.

“Lying wretch!” Thorin thundered. “You promised us that we would not be harmed— and yet here we are, victims of your enchantments!”

Legolas regarded Thorin in the same manner an outside observer might when following a mildly interesting conversation. “I did not lie,” he responded, his voice impassive. “You were not harmed.”

Bracing himself, Bilbo prepared himself to intervene before the quarrel descended into bloodshed. He barely shifted his weight to move forward when Bofur grabbed his shoulder and silently shook his head, warning him away from his planned course of action.

Glancing around at the other Dwarves, Bilbo saw that Dwalin and Balin stood behind Thorin, their faces hard and weapons at the ready, while Fili and Kili remained nearby him as well, their expressions confused and uncertain, glancing from Legolas to their uncle. The rest of the Company stood slightly apart from them, but not unprepared or unsupportive.

Wrath darkened Thorin’s face. “You toyed with our minds, clouded our judgment—”

“I merely eased your worries, removed your reservations, and erased your unnecessary fears,” Legolas interrupted levelly. “I did this only to give you peace of mind, not because I bear you ill intent.”

Bilbo grimaced. This situation was rapidly escalating out of hand.

“Do you think so little of my intellect that you can sully my presence with falsehoods and expect me to believe them?” Thorin bellowed. “Dwalin heard you trying to turn my nephews against me! You did this to deceive us, to trick us into compliance! All and any kindness you have demonstrated is nothing but a pretense!”

Bilbo turned his gaze back to Legolas to observe his reaction, and was astounded by what he saw.

As he heard Thorin’s words, Legolas’ expression was that of honest confusion. Legolas of the Greenwood, Bilbo realized, was genuinely unaware of why his actions would be construed as devious or immoral. He simply didn’t possess the capacity to understand Thorin’s anger. He had not borne the Company detriment when he altered their minds, and he could not comprehend why any of them would believe he had, Bilbo reasoned, surprising himself with his clarity of thought and lack of prejudice.

But the emotion, uncanny on an Elven face, lasted only seconds, and by the time Legolas gave a small shrug of indifference, the simple movement lined with elegance, it had vanished.

“I did not know why you insist on demonizing my practices, Thorin King,” he replied. “There was no malice in my actions. I have shared with you my food and drink, healed your wounds, and expunged you worries. I have done all of this with only deference to you and your people. My conversation with your heirs was only an attempt to remedy the futile conflict between our kinds. I maintain that I have kept my word: you and your party have not come to harm.”

“And I maintain that you are nothing more than a conniving blackguard. You pretty your words with false oaths and give a spectacle of ceremony, make mockery of our senses and betray our trust. And then you insult us by spinning circles of talk and claims that your behavior is not dishonorable.” Thorin’s tone was rife with disgust. “Full of insincere promises, pompous pageantry, empty talk, and flagrant disregard for decency— you are your father, Legolas  _ Thranduilion _ ."

The name stimulated an outbreak of angry murmurs and indignant whispers from the Dwarves, and Bilbo glanced around haplessly, the significance of the name lost on him. He happened to glimpse at Legolas, and was once again taken aback by the Elf’s expression.

There was a shift of shadow across his face, a gleam of anger in his eyes, and then his antiphon was borne, horrible and hollow on his impossibly beautiful face. Had the Elf’s previous countenance been strange, his visage was now downright eerie. Cold ire warred with poisonous resentment on his face, and he at last abandoned his airs of unconcern, moving with deliberate slowness down the stairs, away from his throne and to where the Company stood, just as graceful as before.

Approached by this wrathful and alien creature, it was all Bilbo could do to  stand his ground.

Legolas’ actions appeared to be a signal to the other Elves; a flurry of whispers and movements followed his activities by mere seconds. They quit their conversations at their tables, disowned their clusters of standing about with drinks and dialogue. They proceeded in multitudes to the staircases leading to the raised walkways, filing up the steps, where they did not appear on the platforms but instead seemed to evanesce into the night’s darkness.

Their proceedings filled Bilbo with anxiety.

When Legolas spoke, his voice was very quiet, and an odd sensation encompassed Bilbo; a sudden feeling of wrongness, as though the entire earth was now the opposite of what it had previously been, like he'd flown back up a staircase. “Your accusations are at once presumptuous and pathetic. How  _ dare _ you assume my intentions are ill, that I am acting on my father’s behalf, when you know  _ nothing _ of the turmoil your conflict with him will bring to me.”

“And what would that be?” Thorin sneered. “What tragedies does the Prince of Mirkwood face that are comparable to the plight of my own people?”

"I have seen the future." Legolas's words were agonized, and some of the Dwarves looked startled by his obvious pain. "I know what will come— pervading darkness, needless war, and inevitable death."

Several beats of silence reverberated throughout the room before Thorin responded, his voice not unkind. "You cannot run from your fate, boy. If it is the future you have seen, it will not be undone by you alone."

"You fool!" There was no malice in Legolas's exclamation, only anger and anguish. "I know that I will put this conflict between you and my father to rest, stop the animosity between the Elves and the Dwarves— but not here! Not now! Through an impossible quest, dozens of years from this moment, I will become tied to one of your kin. We will quarrel and feed the antipathy of our ancestors at first, but through our suffering, we shall become one." Several tears slipped from Legolas's eyes, trailing down his perfect face. "Even after the quest is complete, we will spend decades in each other's company. And then we will then separate, our time together brief beyond reason, as I lose him to his own mortality."

Bilbo noticed that all of the other Elves had disappeared up the stairs; the rest of the Company stared at Legolas, stunned into silence.

"I would prevent it if I could," Legolas said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That is why I would extend you hospitality now, to be befriend your kind sooner rather than later. To spare myself the agony of learning to love one only to lose him, that Galadriel’s mirror has revealed to me. But you—” he swallowed, hurt and rage plain on his face, “—you would force me to endure losing the one in my life I will love the most.”

Thorin was the one to break the silence. “You’re not lying,” he said, clearly astonished. “You’re speaking the truth as you know it.”

Legolas shook his head in disgust, his expression livid. “ _ Go _ ,” he told them, his voice riddled with pain and outrage. “ _ Leave _ .”

He turned his back to them, grabbing a nearby lantern and smashing it to the ground before mounting the staircase. As Legolas climbed the stairs, flames shot out from the lantern and climbed rapidly to form a high wall at the first step, reflecting on the glossy marble floor. A fiery barrier separated the Prince of Mirkwood and the Company, and the last Bilbo saw of Legolas was a glimpse through the flickering flames as he disappeared from sight, passing through the red curtain behind his throne.

Not a second later, the room began rapidly spiraling around them, and the ground gave a mighty lurch, seemingly falling out from beneath them. Panicked and bewildered shouts emitted from the Company as they suddenly plunged into free air, a whirlwind of color enveloping them. Dimly, Bilbo noted  a huge, hollow boom, like the sound of the massive doors slamming shut, but he was too occupied by the free fall for the noise to truly register. However,   before he even had time to fully panic, he plummeted to the ground, the rest of the Company tumbling one by one to the forest floor beside him.

Hefting himself off the ground, Bilbo began brushing pine needles off of his coat when he was interrupted by Bofur’s shout.

“Look!”

The Company turned to the direction where Bofur was pointing, and Bilbo gasped in disbelief.

The stone wall from before stood in front of them again, this time lacking any hint of the green door that led them to the Prince of Mirkwood but for a small, glowing sigil of a blue rose. Pitted, scarred, and spotted with moss, the wall of sheer rock looked as though it had been there for a hundred years. Despite its weathering, the wall stood firm and unyielding, as if it might remain there for one hundred more.


End file.
